


the rain, the breaths, my feet

by kyo1



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depressed Peter Parker, Depression, Dissociation, Just a big whump shot, Other, PTSD, Peter Parker - Freeform, Peter Parker Angst, Peter Parker Deserves Better, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker centric, Sad Peter Parker, Trauma, Whump, depressed, peter parker is depressed, sad fic, there’s no happy ending, tw, vent - Freeform, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27222244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyo1/pseuds/kyo1
Summary: Peters feet melt into the cold tiles. Slipping away from him almost like he burned it. He stared out and couldn’t figure what was wrong, or where he was or how he got there.~He’s no stranger to this, really. But it hurts the same.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	the rain, the breaths, my feet

**Author's Note:**

> Tw for heavy topics.  
> I love y’all sm
> 
> sorry , i keep changing the title 😭

Peters feet melt into the cold tiles. Slipping away from him almost like he burned it. He stared out and couldn’t figure what was wrong, or where he was or how he got there. 

He couldn’t think properly. 

He thought of everything and nothing and every thought bounced around his head only to be shot suddenly and die, left bleeding inside the walls of his brain. 

He’s no stranger to this, really. But it hurts the same. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been and figures it doesn’t really matter. Time is irrelevant to him right now. It won’t stop his eventual melting. 

Sometimes he wished to pick up his feet and drag them until he picked up every trail of who he is. He can’t move his feet. He can’t move at all. 

It’s not a scary thought when he realizes it. It’s almost comforting in a way. He’s always been moving. Always taking up space and being loud. Maybe now he could be still and quiet and impossibly small. 

Small enough to be stored away in a book inside the library that is his mind. 

He would think of himself as a library. Full of books and stories that people don’t want to read, old stories, and interesting ones. 

He doesn’t feel here, but that’s okay because he can read his books. He shuffles through some and sits at the round table. He skims over them quickly, he doesn’t know why. He wants to stop and appreciate the details. 

But his hands remain uncoordinated and disconnected. 

It doesn’t hurt the same way it did the first time. This feeling encases him whole and swallows his screams. 

A last plea for help. 

He’s lost inside the abyss of his mind. A maze filled with intricate designs, shifting and moving any time he gets a lead on how to leave. 

Sometimes days pass. But he always comes back. However, it’s always when he’s under his bed repeating the same mantra

“It’s not real. It’s ok, you’re ok” 

It is real, he knows it. And , maybe it isn’t. It doesn’t matter really. Because in this situation, Peter is completely and utterly alone. 

It bites in his bone the loneliness in the small apartment. He’s been so alone for so long he’s losing his mind. 

He bleeds. Bleeds out. Gently. A little trickle of blood trailing down from him. Drip drip dripping towards the ground beneath him. 

It rains. For the first time in a month. Well- a month for him, he doesn’t even know how long it’s been since he got there. 

He goes outside to his balcony and lays face towards the grey sky. He screams. His throat gurgles at the fat heavy droplets inhabiting his body. 

He struggles to breathe and it hurts and it burns and it aches but he’s so present and he’s never felt more alive and he’s never felt more real-

He swallows and it opens him. He falls apart and washes away with the rain. Washing out on his stupid little balcony. 

He inhales deeply, nostrils burning at the entrance of the water, and then he exhales. 

He doesn’t really breathe, because, he hasn’t taken a breath in years, but he got air in. 

He walks back in and finds himself laying face down on his kitchen floor. His stomach cramping from the rain water. His hair is still wet and curled and it’s probably so happy it’s somewhat washed. 

He curls into a little ball. Trying to tuck away all the hurt, all the memories, all the tears, all the water- 

And he lets it out. 

A guttural scream bounces through every wall and fills his hearing. 

And then he cries.

**Author's Note:**

> Lmaoo i don’t think i’m okay 😀


End file.
